


Three years

by jellybabys



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock later, Kidnapping, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Revenge, implied tortue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 07:45:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybabys/pseuds/jellybabys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is kidnapped by the man who everyone used to know as Richard Brook, until he was apparently killed by Sherlock in a murder-suicide. Now, both are apparently back, and John is being used as bait to trap his best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Second attempt at a fanfic. First was a wholock which I will try to get back to. Hopefully I won't run out of inspiration on this one too. Hope you enjoy this.

Three years. It had been three years. Three years since John Watson had watched his best friend jump off that blasted hospital. Three years of constant sympathetic glances and pity. It was almost more than John could bear, but he did. Now he stood by the grave once again, staring down at that name carved in stone, signalling the presence of the detective under the ground. His visits had become fewer and more infrequent as the years had worn on, but today was the anniversary, and John for some unknown reason, still felt the need to talk to him on this hated day.

“So,” he said, standing over the grave. “Three years. I can actually hear you in my head scoffing at the sentiment of coming here on the ‘anniversary’.” He hated that word, but he could never think of a better one. He looked down at his feet. “It’s stupid really. Coming to a grave. I mean, even if there was a life after death, it’s not like you would want to spend time listening to me rabbling on over your dead body. You would probably be deducing everyone’s life story. Literally. And probably deducing all the angels too, much like you deduced that jury at Moriarty’s court case. Because no matter what anyone thinks, you were too good a person to not end up in heaven. If such a place exists. I know you didn’t believe in it. And I would have loved to see your face if it was true and you realised that was where you were.” He fell silent again. “I won’t bore you with useless information about everyone else. If you wanted to know, you would already, I suppose. So I guess this is goodbye again.” He swallowed the lump in his throat, stepped forward and did his usual tap to the top of the gravestone. “Bye Sherlock.”

He turned before the tears could start falling and walked away. He couldn't stand talking to the grave for too long. It hurt too much. He was surprised that his limp hadn’t come back, especially seeing as Sherlock was the main reason it had gone away in the first place. But it was fine. He was still concentrating on not breaking down in tears at the reminder of how Sherlock had affected his life, so he didn’t see the man emerge from the alleyway until John almost walked into him.

“Sorry,” John muttered, moving to step past him. But the man stepped in front of him again. John looked up at him. “Sorry, do I know you?”

The man smiled a smile that immediately left John feeling uncomfortable. “Doctor Watson, would you kindly come with me,” the man said, indicating a black car that had pulled up without John noticing.

John eyed is suspiciously. “Are you from Mycroft? Well he can bloody well call me,” he said, turning away. He was stopped after just two paces by another strange man.

“I must insist, Doctor Watson,” the first man said. “That you come with us.”

John frowned, his soldier instincts warning him something was wrong. His hand reached for his back pocket where his Browning usually sat, when he realised it was still at home. He hadn’t even touched it for three years, not thinking he would have any reason to. He sighed, and let his arm hang by his side. He didn't have the energy to fight. And if they wanted him dead, he would be. He quietly turned towards the car.

“Very good, Doctor Watson,” the first man said as the door was shut behind John and the car drove off.

 

John had tried to see where they were going, but the windows were too tinted and dark for him to see out of. He hoped Mycroft’s surveillance he had been placed under had seen this and was busy tracking him down. He wasn’t even supposed to know about the surveillance, but he had always suspected. He supposed it was to ensure he didn’t commit suicide or anything after Sherlock’s death. The thought had crossed his mind, but it required energy to find a building to jump off, or lift his gun, or even find some pills to overdose on. By the time he had enough energy to even try anything, he found he didn’t want to. He wanted to prove to everyone that Captain Watson was still inside him somewhere. And if that guy could survive a bullet, he could certainly survive the loss of Sherlock. Didn’t stop it from being hard.

The car stopped and the door was opened by someone, indicating it was time for John to get out. When he did, he saw the door was being held open by another man, dressed in black, who promptly shut the door and lead John away. As they walked, John recognised the warehouse as being the exact same warehouse John had first met Mycroft in all those years before. In fact, standing in the exact same spot was another man. One who John recognised and immediately hated.

“Hello my dear John Watson,” came the Irish singsong lilt.

“Moriarty,” John said through gritted teeth. “You are supposed to be dead. You died on that roof right before Sherlock… jumped.”

“Oh yes. Now that was fun. Even fooled the great consulting detective. Easy to do when he thought his friends were at risk. Guess he was distracted,” Jim said, smiling.

John’s mind was racing. “You faked your death to make it look like Sherlock murdered you then took his own life. You planned all of this! This is all your fault!” John stepped forward angrily.

“Yes, yes. Knew you would get there eventually. It was fun. While it lasted, but Sherlock got so boring. So normal. However, it seems he’s pulled another trick out of the bag.”

John froze. “Excuse me?”

“Ah, it seems Seb was right. You really do have no idea. Well this does make this so much more interesting,” Jim said, rubbing his hands with actual glee.

“Seb?”

“Why yes, my personal friend Sebastian Moran. Very good sniper. Very useful. Although it does seem I owe him some money now.”

John had to take a deep breath to calm himself. “Colonel Sebastian Moran?”

Jim looked at him in surprise. “Didn’t know you knew each other.”

John’s fists had clenched at his sides. “You can say that we did.”

“Right well, I’m sure you’re reunion will be worth the wait. Now for the real reason I brought you here.” Jim nodded at one of the men standing behind John. Before John could react, his hands had been forced behind his back and a set of handcuffs had been snapped onto his wrists. Jim stepped forward to stand in front of John. “There have been rumours, my dear John.”

“I would say I hope they’re rumours of the sort you used to make everyone think Sherlock was a fake. But you deserve a worse fate,” John said forcefully. His wrists were already hurting from the slightly too tight handcuffs, so he decided not to strain too much against them.

Jim laughed. “Such fight within you. It’s just delightful. I can almost see why Sherlock kept you around. But no, these rumours are of a different sort, one that requires you to put an end to. You see, Seb and I believe they aren't just rumours. They are in fact, the truth, which would be greatly annoying, however also slightly impressive. But we would like to put an end to the person who is the subject of these rumours.”

“What are the bloody rumours Jim?”

Cue dramatic pause. John almost rolled his eyes at the length of time Jim was taking to reply.

“The rumours suggest,” Jim said, leaning in to whisper the next bit in John’s ear. “That I wasn’t the only person to fake my death that day three years ago.”

As Jim stepped back, John felt the realisation dawn on him, but it was abruptly cut off by something hard connecting with his head, and everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the person who told me I'd posted 2 chapters the same. Apparently I managed to post chapter 3 before chapter 2, and I can't remember how... Oh well, here's the missing chapter.

Sherlock sat in his rundown flat on the edge of Paris, studying his notes. If all his leads were to be believed, Moran had gone back to England. Sherlock smiled at the prospect of finally destroying Moriarty’s network. Moran and the few men he had working under him were all that were left. Once Moran was gone, the others would fall. But it was taking a while. Moran was giving Sherlock a good chase, and while Sherlock loved chases, it was just taking longer and longer to get back to England and to John. Now Moran had gone back there himself. Sherlock was positively gleeful at the idea of returning to England. Maybe John could help him bring down the last man. Sherlock was sure they would both enjoy that. That is, if John forgave him. Three years is a long time, and it hurt Sherlock to know John was left thinking he was dead. There were so many things Sherlock had wanted to say to John in that last phone call, but hadn’t. It would have hurt John more if he had known how Sherlock felt.

Sherlock glanced at his phone. Time to call Big Brother.

 

“Sherlock. I was just about to ring you.” Mycroft’s voice sounded even posher than usual through the phone. But there was something else too. Concern?

“What’s happened?”

“Well, I assume you’re ringing me to inform me of Moran’s whereabouts. Unfortunately I already know.”

“What do you mean, Mycroft?”

“He’s kidnapped John.”

Silence.

“Sherlock?”

“I thought you had him under surveillance!”

“I did. I –“

“That was in case something like this happened! You are incompetent, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock you can’t put the entire blame for this on me.”

“And why the hell not? If you’re surveillance had done its job, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Think about it Sherlock. Why kidnap him now? Why wait three years to do this?”

A pause.

“Moran knows I’m alive.”

“That is, at the moment, the only logical explanation.”

Another pause.

“I need to come home.”

“Sherlock, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I intended on coming home now anyway to catch Moran. I can’t do it effectively from out here. Get me home so I can help John and catch that bastard Moran.”

A sigh from Mycroft.

“You can be back home in three hours. I’ll text you the details.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock hung up and put the phone down on his bed, resisting the urge to throw it at a wall. Three years of being dead to protect John, and now he’d wound up in danger anyway. He put his head in his hands. He had to save him.

 

John woke to a black cloth bag over his head. Well, he assumed it was black. He doubted it would be pink. Either way, he couldn’t see out of it. It took him a moment, but he soon remembered what happened.

Jim fucking Moriarty, and Colonel Sebastian fucking Moran. His two worst nightmares somehow decided to work together. God, he hated them.

A slight twist of his wrists revealed to him he was still in the too tight handcuffs. His wrists were really chafing now. And his legs were also bound, separately though, to the front two legs of the hardback chair he was sitting on.

He couldn’t hear anyone around him, but he could sort of sense at least two people standing close behind him.

Since nothing particular seemed to be happening, John started to doze again.

He was woken later, with the bag being pulled off his head. His eyes squeezed shut at the light that hurt his eyes after the darkness of the bag. He heard someone say “Gag him,” resulting in a foul tasting piece of cloth being stuffed into his mouth, and a longer piece being wrapped round his mouth and head to stop him from spitting it out. The taste made him want to vomit.

“Come on, Captain. Open your eyes.”

John visibly winced at the sound of the voice, but opened his eyes.

Standing in front of him was Colonel Sebastian Moran, grinning down at him. “So nice to see you again, Captain.”

John just glared at him.

“Oh come now,” Sebastian said. “You’re not still annoyed at that little incident in Afghanistan, are you? So childish.”

John had some lovely words he wished he could have told Sebastian right then, but the gag prevented it. So he settled for glaring again.

Sebastian just grinned again. “I do hope you know why you’re here. Jim said he told you, but he does love speaking in riddles. So I’m not sure if you fully understood the meaning. Sherlock Holmes is alive. He’s been trying to chase me for a while now. Thinks I’m the last one left of Jim’s network. Doesn’t even know Jim’s alive.”

The shock of hearing Sherlock was alive still felt fresh, even though he knew it from Jim before he was rendered unconscious. But that look of shock was enough to make Sebastian chuckle with glee.

“I knew you didn’t know. I knew he wouldn’t have told you. I must remember to collect my money from Jim. We made a bet you see. Jim thought Holmes would tell you. I didn’t think he would.”

John wanted nothing more than to spit out his gag in Sebastian’s face.

“Now,” Sebastian continued. “Jim told me I’m not allowed to hurt you. For now. So I guess I’ll save that for next time. But now, it’s time for you to go to sleep. Don’t worry, when you wake up, you’ll be fully refreshed to help us trap Holmes.” He stepped back and nodded at one of the men standing behind John. A second later, something was being stabbed into John’s neck. He tried to struggle, but soon the effects of the drug that had been injected into his neck took over, and he slipped into darkness again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their reunion in this chapter isn't full of all the emotion that is expected for Post-Reichenbach, but don't worry, that will come later.

Sherlock stood outside one of the back entrances to the warehouse. He had arrived in England 2 hours before, to find a text waiting on his phone from Mycroft.

[John being held in warehouse on river. Surveillance suggests 10 men at most. MH]

Another text had followed shortly giving the address of the warehouse, and now, a new text had arrived.

[I strongly advise you wait until I can get there with back-up and a plan to help you. MH]

Sherlock decided not to reply to that. John could be in serious danger, and Sherlock needed to get him out, now. He didn’t need Mycroft. Not for this.

The layout of the warehouse was small. From the outside Sherlock could deduce that there was one main room of the warehouse, and lots of much smaller, more office size rooms, coming off from it.

Sherlock took a lock-pick out of his pocket and proceeded to pick the lock of the side entrance. He felt calm and collected, but he knew the reality of John being in danger would hit soon enough. Cautiously, and with his hand steady on the gun he had in the deep pocket of his coat, he stepped into the warehouse.

The door had opened on a corridor. There was only one door, and it was at the end. There were no other doors to his left or right. He walked forward cautiously, even though he wanted to run.

He eventually made it to the end of the corridor. The door was very slightly open, so Sherlock was able to peek a little round it. It opened to one of the smaller office size rooms, off the main warehouse floor. For a second, Sherlock couldn’t see anyone in it, but then his eyes caught sight of a figure tied to a chair right at the back of the room, slumped forward from either sleep or unconsciousness. John.

He forced himself to walk slowly over to the chair, being sure to look around him for any of John’s kidnappers. Strangely, there was no one. Not even a lone guard. It seemed suspicious, but Sherlock didn’t care. Finally, Sherlock reached the chair, and he knelt down in front of it. He placed a hand on John’s cheek.

“John? John, can you hear me? You need to wake up. John?”

John started to stir at the voice and the touch, which Sherlock took as a good sign, and moved round the back of the chair to untie the piece of cloth holding the other bunched up piece of cloth in John’s mouth.

He came back round to kneel again in front of John, who was looking very dazed and confused. Drugged then. Sherlock took the cloth out of his mouth.

“Sher… Sherlock?” John managed.

“Yes, I’m here John. I know this must be confusing, but I’m alive. I didn’t die. And I’m so sorry for fooling you,” Sherlock said, truly meaning it.

But John shook his head. “No… That’s not it. You need to… have to…” John looked very confused, as if he was working out exactly what apparently needed to be done. Suddenly realisation dawned on his face, and he looked at Sherlock with more clarity, suddenly very much awake.

“Run. You need to run. Get out of here.”

Sherlock looked up at him in surprise. He had been trying to undo the knots on the ropes on John’s legs that were tying him to the chair. “I’m not leaving, John,” he said, moving to the other leg.

“No, you don’t understand. It’s a trap. They know you’re not dead, and they set me up as bait for you. I’m the bait, Sherlock. They’re going to kill you this time. You have to go.” John emphasised his last word with a kick with his free leg.

Sherlock had to stop his battle with the rope on John’s right leg to avoid the kick. He looked up at him. “I’m not leaving you again, John,” he said, forcefully, looking into John's eyes. He could see that John felt the intensity of what Sherlock had said, so he turned back to the rope. He was about to start tackling it again, when something on John’s chest caught his eye. He stared at the red dot that appeared. John looked down to see what he was looking at, and sighed.

“And it looks like they don’t want me going anywhere.”

Sherlock stood up, and was about to turn and shout at Moran, who was most likely to be the one holding the sniper gun, when something niggled at the back of his mind. He stared intently at John. “Why do you keep saying “they”?” he asked.

John looked up at him, worry and confusion etched on his face. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. Please tell me you know.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly in confusion, and if John’s hands had been untied, he would have but his head in them. Instead, he simply hung his head and stared at his lap. “He’s going to have fun with that,” he said softly.

Sherlock knelt back down and began to undo the ropes again, all the while looking at John. “There’s Moran,” he said thoughtfully. “Then there’s the few men he’s got working personally for him. Is that who you mean?”

John just shook his head. “Sebastian’s not the only one, Sherlock,” he said sadly.

Sherlock looked up at him as he finished untying the rope. “Then who do you mean?”

At that point, one of the other doors leading into the room opened, and a voice came through in a sing-song like cadence, exactly like the first time they met.

“Jim Moriarty. Hi!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably going to take a bit longer to write and post the next chapters. School's starting for me, so I just won't have the same amount of free time. Hope you've enjoyed it so far.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock froze, his eyes on John’s, and John could see the shock and the fear that had taken place in Sherlock’s mind when he heard those words. But they were gone in the instant that Sherlock turned to face the consulting criminal, his face calm and collected once again. John had hoped that Sherlock really had known that Moriarty had faked his death, but it was clear now that he hadn’t.

Sherlock stood, facing slightly away from John who was still bound to the chair by his wrists, and glared at Moriarty. “Knew it was too easy,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“It was rather, wasn’t it?” Moriarty said. “I almost got bored. And you know what I’m like when I’m bored. But, you made it all worthwhile in the end.”

“I would have thought you would have come up with something a bit more interesting than simply kidnapping John,” Sherlock said with a nonchalant air, which John could see was slightly forced.

“Actually, Seb came up with this plan. And while my plans were a lot more technical and fun, this one served the purpose of bringing you here, and settling mine and Seb’s little bet.” Moriarty had stepped fully into the room now, his eyes fixed on Sherlock.

John watched as Sherlock put his hands into his coat pockets. Another sign of his faked relaxed state. “Bet? Oh. You thought I would have told John about faking my death,” Sherlock said, with a slight satisfied smile at himself for deducing it. Moriarty had moved further into the room and Sherlock had turned to watch him, presenting John with his profile.

“I lost. I had expected you to want to gloat over your success,” Moriarty said thoughtfully, slightly out of character from the other times John had actually met him.

Sherlock’s smile was knowing, and John could see the underlying hint that Sherlock felt he was winning in this situation. John wasn’t quite sure what had lead Sherlock to think that, but it was there. “You thought I was more like you. You assumed I would act the same way you would have… The same way you did…” Sherlock trailed off with his thoughtful expression on his face.

“Yes, I did tell Seb shortly after. He was annoyed and a little bit angry, but not as angry as he would have been if I had waited, oh I don’t know, three years to tell him,” Moriarty said pointedly, his eyes turning to John, still bound to the chair.

John glared at him, his anger temporarily directed at the consulting criminal, rather than at the consulting detective. There would hopefully be a time later, when he maybe wasn’t tied up with a sniper ready to shoot him at a moment’s notice, when he would be able to let himself think about what Sherlock being back meant about what Sherlock had done exactly three years ago.

Sherlock’s eyes barely flickered to look at John, but John did notice the slight change in Sherlock’s stance. His weight shifted from his right foot to his left, and his hands plunged deeper into his coat pockets. John thought he saw Sherlock’s right hand grip something in the pocket, but John wasn’t going to mention it.

Sherlock still sounded calm when he spoke again. “It just proves that I am clearly more able to survive on my own without my ‘pet’ as you like to call him, than you can survive without yours.”

“Or,” Moriarty said, stepping closer to the two of them. “It shows that you are much more comfortable deceiving him. It’s amazing how much trust he can have in you, when you go ahead and lie to him for three years straight.” He stepped even closer, coming right up to John’s chair. He smiled down at John. “Don’t you have anything to say on this, Captain?”

John had plenty to say, and he would have said it, if Sherlock hadn’t taken that moment to pull his hand out of his coat pocket, still holding the thing John had seen it grip onto in his pocket which John now realised to be a gun, and pointed the barrel at Moriarty’s head. “Leave. John. Alone.”

Moriarty just smiled. “Bad idea, Sherlock. Seb has been telling me how much he would love to settle a little feud he and your lovely Captain have had for a while. He’s just waiting for an excuse.” He stood behind John’s chair now, his hands on the back of it.

Sherlock frowned at looked at John, who studiously looked at his knees, trying not to squirm under the deducting glare of Sherlock, and the proximity of Moriarty behind him.

“Didn’t tell you either, did he? Always wondered why Seb was so eager to be the sniper pointing the gun at John three years ago,” Moriarty said, his fingers reaching out and touching the back of John’s shoulders. John leaned forward, squirming to get away from the touch. He managed to glance up at Sherlock, who seemed to be willing to lower his gun, and also ignore the secret between John and Sherlock. For now.

“What’s the plan here, Jim? You just going to talk all day about things people didn’t know? Or you actually going to do something rather than be boring and simply talk?” Sherlock asked, his gun lowered, but still present.

This seemed to strike a chord with Jim. He hated being called boring. It was what he always tried to get away from. “This is far from boring, Sherlock,” he said with a forced smile.  
Sherlock’s text alert sounded, causing Jim’s smile to widen. “That will be your dear brother. I do hope he isn’t too set on finding you two. You won’t be here for long.”

John held his breath as Sherlock took a deep calming one. So Moriarty’s plan was to trap them both? Great. Just great.

“Why don’t you tell us all what Mr Holmes senior has to say?” Jim said.

Sherlock pulled his phone out slowly, clearly hoping that it was Mycroft saying they’d be there in 30 seconds, and he could delay them leaving with Moriarty and get Mycroft there in time. John didn’t need to be a consulting detective to see that. Sherlock brought the screen up, and read out:

You really should have waited for me. We’ll be there in 2 minutes. MH

Jim clapped once, the smile still on his face. “Excellent. Time to go then Seb,” he called up to where Moran was apparently hiding in the beams in the ceiling. Jim brought his gaze back to Sherlock, who in the first time since John had known him, looked honestly as if he didn’t have a clue what to do, and it didn’t help the fear that had already settled in John’s chest. If Sherlock didn’t know what to do, they really were screwed. “I hope you don’t mind boys, but you’ll have to be unconscious for this next bit,” Jim was saying, as John felt a familiar stab to his neck. He looked up to see Sebastian jabbing a similar syringe into Sherlock’s neck, while Sherlock didn’t even react. He looked at John, his eyes shining, as he collapsed to the floor. And once again, John found himself slipping into black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May be a delay for the next few chapters. School started this week, and I'm gonna be pretty busy from here on out. I might be able to get some writing done, but the most likely time for me to be posting will be at weekends if at all. Still, hope you're enjoying this fic.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay everyone. Been incredibly busy, with school and life in general... Also a bit of writer's block. Literally finished this chapter this morning, so haven't had a chance to check it over... Hopefully it's alright!
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

Sherlock woke, dazed and slightly confused for a total of 2.2 seconds, before he remembered everything. He had to take a deep breath to calm himself as the memory of Moriarty being alive resurfaced with alarming clarity. The deep breath reminded his body that he was now tied up, a rope around his chest, another around his wrists behind the back of the chair he was sitting on, and another binding his legs. He moved his wrists to evaluate how to wriggle free of the ropes if he could, when his fingers brushed someone else’s.

He jumped a little, and strained his head round to try to see who was behind him. He caught sight of a blond head and he realised he wasn’t alone in the room. John was tied behind him on another chair so they were back to back. By the lack of movement from behind him, Sherlock decided John was still asleep under the influence of the drug. 

He decided to take this time to review the situation. He didn’t seem to be injured in anyway, but he had no idea about John. He looked at his surroundings, but all he could tell was that it was some sort of storeroom. He tried to put his deducing skills to use, but his mind was still slightly dazed by the drug. He hoped Mycroft would be able to track him down, but he doubted Moriarty would make it easy.

That thought brought reality crashing down on top of Sherlock. Moriarty was alive. He had faked his death, just like Sherlock had, and now he had the upper hand. Sherlock cursed himself for not having figured it out sooner. Maybe if he had, John wouldn’t have been kidnapped, or drugged, or tied up and set as bait to draw Sherlock in. 

The thought of John made Sherlock realise his fingers had intertwined with John’s in between the chairs. He could feel the soldier’s rough calloused hands, and decided he didn’t want to let go. He could feel John stirring as the effects of the drug wore off, and Sherlock still didn’t let go of his hands. He wanted this feeling that everything was alright, because he was with John again. So he dropped his head, pretending to be asleep, and hoped John would think their hands had entwined while they had both fallen asleep. Then Sherlock could see if John decided to pull away, and then pretend to wake up. If John did pull away, that would be fine. It would hurt, but Sherlock could live with it. But if he didn’t…

Sherlock internally shook his head, removing that thought. He would live with it. He evened out his breath as he listened to the movements John was making.

He felt John lift his head, heard him groan as his muscles protested, felt the tension build in his body as he realised he was tied up, felt him move his hands to feel how he was tied, and felt him freeze.

Sherlock held his breath, as he felt John move his fingers in his, taking in the feel of Sherlock’s hands. He felt John strain his head round, and let out an audible sigh. “I suppose there’s no chance I’m dreaming still, is there?” he asked, clearly aware that Sherlock was actually awake.

“I suppose not,” Sherlock whispered. He lifted his head, all pretence of sleep, gone. “John, I’m –“

“Yeah, I get it. You’re sorry,” came the forceful reply, but his hands were still in Sherlock’s.

Sherlock strained his head round to try and see John. “I really am.”

John continued to look at his lap. “Sure.”

Sherlock could feel the tension that had built up in John’s hands. “You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m bloody angry, Sherlock,” came John’s loud reply, his hands clenching. He took a deep breath before speaking again, quieter this time. “I watched you… I watched you jump of that building… And I checked your pulse. And guess what? You didn’t have one!”

Sherlock winced at the force behind the words. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Yeah I got that. You said. Now come on then, what excuse have you managed to think up to get out of this one?” John asked sarcastically.

Something in Sherlock snapped. “You!” he all but shouted. “You’re my excuse. I did all this to protect you.” Sherlock felt like crying. He clenched his fingers in John’s. “You were going to die,” he muttered. “He was going to kill you if I didn’t jump. You had to believe I was dead, or he would kill you.”

He felt John freeze, but Sherlock didn’t stop. “Moriarty gave me an ultimatum. I jump, or his men kill you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Moran had the orders to kill you. The only way out was if Moriarty called them off, or I jumped.” Sherlock had felt John tense when he mentioned Moran, but he knew he could push that later. Right now, he had to explain to John.

“Why didn’t you just convince Moriarty to call them off? I know you, Sherlock, and you can be very persuasive,” John said.

“I was going to. I almost had. Then he pulled out a gun and shot himself in the head… Or at least, that’s what I thought he did…” Sherlock trailed off uncertainly. “Stupid,” he said to himself.

“You’re not stupid, Sherlock. Moriarty is an evil bastard. Don’t let him get to your head,” John said. His voice sounded... resigned? Did that mean he had accepted Sherlock’s apology? Sherlock could only hope.

“I am sorry, John. I didn’t realise it would hurt you so much.”

“You didn’t realise…” John shook his head. “Sherlock, you’re my best friend. I watched you kill yourself in front of me. Of course it was going to hurt. But I get it. You didn’t think there was any other choice, so you did what you had to do. In some twisted way, I sort of forgive you, but I’m still angry. You could have told me. I could have helped you. Instead I was left feeling like I had been a horrible friend by not noticing the signs that you were suicidal…”

“If I had told you, you wouldn’t have been safe. They had to believe I was dead, and if my best friend hadn’t believed it, why would they? We already know what happens when they think I’m not dead. They target you.”

There was a pause. “You should have run when I told you to. Back at the warehouse,” John said quietly.

“They would have hurt you.”

They were silent for a while, before Sherlock felt his mind go groggy. “I think… I think the drug has a relapse period…” he managed to say.

He felt John nod in agreement, before he relaxed into sleep. Sherlock was quick to follow him, his last coherent thought being that John’s fingers had not pulled away from Sherlock’s. Not once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be more delays with the next chapter... Still fighting my writer's block. But I am trying to write as quickly as possible.
> 
> Also, I don't actually know if drugs that knock you out do have a 'relapse period' but I needed this one to have one, so it does.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the long delay... I am trying, really. Promise. But as I said before, I have been so busy, and still trying to fight off this persistent writer's block... Sorry if there's an even longer delay next time.  
> Quick warning, tags are changing slightly for this chapter. There is technically torture, but I'm not very good at writing that, so it's just implied.  
> For those of you curious as to what the secret between John and Moran is, and haven't worked it out, it should be coming out within the next couple of chapters

John woke up slowly. The first thing he noticed was how much darker it was, and how unfamiliar the room was. He could remember the store room they had apparently been in before, but this room was definitely different. John could make out 3 of the presumably, 4 plain concrete walls. There was one metal door directly in front of him, but other than that, there was apparently nothing else in the room with him.

The second thing John noticed when he woke up, was the lack of Sherlock’s fingers in his own.

This made John begin to panic a little. He made to turn his head to look around properly for where Sherlock was, but that made his head spin, so he stopped. Reaching back with his fingers, he encountered the concrete wall.

That confirmed it. He and Sherlock had been separated.

 _Or_ , the annoying part of his brain suggested. _He was never here to start with._

God, he hoped that wasn’t true.

He surprised himself slightly with that. He was supposed to be angry.

He _was_ angry. The detective didn’t contact John for three years, letting him think he was dead. He had every right to be angry with Sherlock, and to never forgive him. Jumping off a building to your supposed death in front of your best friend definitely goes on the list of unforgivable things people should never do.

But he was also unbelievably glad he was back. And the thought that he never wanted to let Sherlock out of his sight again crossed his mind, until he realised, once again, that Sherlock wasn’t there.

John shut his eyes and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. He noticed the bonds on his wrists had been changed. He assumed that the bonds on his ankles and around his waist had also been changed. He acknowledged with a slight smile that he hadn’t been gagged. If Moran decided to come in, he would be able to say what he wanted to the bastard’s face.

The person that did end up opening the door was an elderly woman carrying a tray with food and a glass of water. John noticed the cuffs around her wrists and ankles, making it hard for her to walk, and doubly hard to even hold the tray. She set the tray down as carefully as possible on the small table John hadn’t even noticed was beside his chair. She then went around the back of his chair and undid the ropes holding his hands together. His chest was still bound to the chair, but his hands and arms were free to pick up the food.

He slowly stretched out his arms, wincing as the muscles complained. He looked up at the woman in silent thanks, not trusting himself to speak. She didn’t acknowledge it, but stayed by him, obviously waiting for him to finish so she could tie him up again. He contemplated eating as slowly as possible, and let his arms fully regain their feeling, but he decided that would make tying them up again hurt more.

He ate as quickly as he was able, then held his hands behind him for the woman to tie back up. This time she did look at him, and nodded once in appreciation for not making her job any harder than it already was. All the doctor side of John wanted to do was to check her wrists and ankles and make sure the handcuffs hadn’t caused too much damage. She re-tied him, picked up the now empty tray, and shuffled back to the door, leaving John alone once again.

John began to think. He tried running his mind over the memories of the last day, trying to work out how much of it, if any, was part of some hallucinating dream brought about by some form of torture. But it all seemed far too real, and John finally had to accept the fact that Sherlock wasn’t dead, and Moran and Moriarty were back to haunt him.

There were no windows in his cell, and he hadn’t even thought about checking his watch for the time when he was eating (if it wasn’t already broken), so John had no idea how much time had passed. He sat silently, occupying his thoughts with ways Moran and Moriarty could come to sticky ends, and eventually fell asleep.

 

He was woken, after what felt like barely a few seconds, but was more likely a few hours later, by a vicious hand slapping him across the face.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” came Seb’s voice. John blinked rapidly, his head hurting and his vision was slightly blurry around the edges. Eventually he was able to focus on Seb’s back that was leaning over a table that certainly hadn’t been there earlier. As more of John’s vision came into focus, he was able to make out some of the array of things Seb was currently inspecting. The sight made his mind reel.

They were torture implements.

Lots of them.

He focused his mind on speaking. “Still mad then?”

Seb turned to look at him. “I have no idea what you are talking about.” The smug grin he gave John was enough proof against that. He turned back to the table. “This is Jim’s plan. I get to torture you, while he gets to make Sherlock watch.”

John’s eyes widened, and he scanned the room. He quickly spotted the flashing red light that signalled a camera up in the ceiling corner.

Seb noted his line of sight and smirked. “Yes, that camera there leads straight to Sherlock’s little cell, where he is going to watch you bleed and break. It should be enough to get him to do what we want.”

“You mean what Jim wants.”

John regrets the words almost as soon as they’re out of his mouth. He definitely regrets them when a particularly hard fist is quickly thrown at his face, almost resulting in a dislocated jaw. John feels the point where it’s about to dislocate, but luckily it doesn’t get that far.

“Don’t talk back to me, Captain. I’m still a Colonel. I still outrank you. You still have to obey my orders.”

John grimaced, and talks through the painful bruise slowly forming on his left cheek. “I didn’t then, and I won’t now. And if you haven’t noticed, we’re not in Afghanistan anymore. We’re not even in the army anymore.”

Seb’s eyes narrowed and he turned back to the table, picking up a particularly large knife. “Then I’ll just have to _make_ you obey me, won’t I?” he asked, menacingly. He stepped forward, his eyes moving to the rope still around John’s chest. “Oh that won’t do. That rope will just get in the way.” He moved around and quickly cut the rope. John took a deep breath, relishing in the feeling of finally being able to take a proper breath. He hands and feet were still tied, obviously, but it was nice to not be completely restricted.

The feeling lasted about as long as it took for Seb to move back to the front of John’s chair, still holding the knife. “Almost perfect.” He stepped forward again, and with a flick of his wrist, sliced open the shirt John was wearing to reveal his chest. “Much better.” A hand reached out to touch the shot wound that had taken John out of the war. “Such a shame, that. I looked forward to seeing you on the battlefield for real.”

John grimaced, keeping his retorts in, not wanting to provoke Seb when he was holding a knife. Seb grinned. “Finally learnt to keep silent. Good boy,” he said, as he stepped forward, again.

 

What felt like hours later, Seb had untied John’s hands and ankles, and had dumped him unceremoniously in the corner of the room, in full view of the camera, and had left the cell.

John took deep calming breaths and sat himself up to inspect the damage. He pulled Doctor Watson out of the corner of his brain where he had been hiding and ordered himself to check the wounds as clinically as possible, and try not to process too much of it. His hands moved as if of their own accord, checking over each wound, and using his now tattered shirt to haphazardly bandage the worst ones.

All too soon, he was finished. And with nothing else to occupy his mind, he curled up on his side, mindful of the worst wounds, and eventually slipped into his first drug free sleep in what felt like days.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a fairly quick update compared to the other ones. You guys should be proud of me  
> Enjoy!

Sherlock watched in horror as the events played out on the screen. He had just got John back, and now he was being forced to watch his best friend be tortured. Moriarty was standing by the TV screen, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Sherlock had to backtrack at that. When had he decided the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland wasn’t worth deleting?

The torture ended, and John was left in the corner opposite the camera. _Obvious. Purposeful. Placed so I can see the effects._ Moriarty moved to stand next to him.

“He doesn’t look too well, does he, Sherlock?” Moriarty said softly. “I wonder just how much more of this he can take.”

Sherlock’s mind was racing. _Where are we? How far away from this room is John? How many men stand in the way? Will I be able to get there and get us both out? Where the hell is Mycroft?_

“I do enjoy watching this. You, falling apart. A whole different type of fall. And, oh, if it isn’t beautiful.”

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the now curled up John, and glared at Moriarty, his mind running through the wonderful ways he could make him suffer for touching John, but Moriarty just continued to grin at him.

“I haven’t gagged you, Sherlock. You are free to say what you like, though I doubt I’ll be very affected by what you distraught mind can produce.”

Sherlock stayed silent, though he knew he should start talking, distract him just enough so Sherlock could work on getting free.

“Have I stunned the great Sherlock Holmes into silence? Or did Moran do it for me when he played with John?”

Sherlock looked up at him. “Interesting.”

Moriarty’s eyes widened a little. “What’s so interesting?”

“Moran,” Sherlock said with a smirk mixed with an expression of thoughtfulness which he often wore when he was figuring out a deduction.

“What?”

“You called him Moran.”

Moriarty frowned. “So?”

Sherlock smiled. “You don’t trust enough people to know you’re alive. I know you don’t have any other men here other than yourself and Moran. Obvious given the location and the layout of the rooms which I managed to glimpse when you brought me here. Don’t give me that look. Obviously I wasn’t completely unconscious. Now, last time we talked, he was in the room with us. And you called him Seb. Now you’re calling him Moran. More formal. You rarely call him Moran to his face, so you know he’s not here.”

“Well, _obviously._ I just made you watch him torture your little pet.”

“And it also means you know he’s not watching. So there’s no hidden cameras keeping an eye on me. Which means,” Sherlock paused as he flicked his wrists out of the ropes. “There’s no one to warn you when I’m escaping my ropes.” He quickly brought his fist back and punched Moriarty squarely on the jaw, knocking him out and dislocating his jaw in the process.

Sherlock smirked at the unconscious body in front of him, before quickly untying the ropes around his legs and standing. He knelt down and checked through Moriarty’s posh suit. _He doesn’t even carry a gun on him. Idiot._ He took out the mobile phone in the jacket pocket and put it in his own pocket before dragging Moriarty’s body upright and onto the chair, efficiently tying him up with the ropes. He spared one glance to the screen where John was still curled up in the corner before exiting the room cautiously. While he knew Moran wasn’t watching by cameras, he didn’t actually know where he was.

He crept down the hall, watching out for Moran and wishing he had a gun. He reached the end of the corridor, where there was a window. After a quick glance around, he opened Moriarty’s phone. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the lack of a lock. _Over egoistic. Thinks his phone is safe from hacking._ He opened the camera and took a picture before sending it to Mycroft’s number, which had refused to be deleted from Sherlock’s brain when he first learnt it years ago. The picture alone should be enough for Mycroft to work out where they were.

Now Sherlock just had to find John.

He glanced around. There were only two doors on the corridor, and one was the one leading to the room Sherlock had been held in. So Sherlock crept towards the other door. It was unlikely John was right behind this one, because Moran had left earlier, so he had to have gone somewhere. But he was obviously somewhere behind it.

Just before he opened it, Moriarty’s phone buzzed in Sherlock’s pocket. He opened it to find a text.

**On our way. MH**

Sherlock nodded once, and opened the door. Behind it lay another corridor with quite a few more doors. Just as he was deciding which one John might be behind, one of them opened, and Moran stepped out. Sherlock cherished the look of surprise and confusion on Moran’s face before it was replaced by anger.

Sherlock easily dodged the first predictable right hook by ducking. He punched Moran in the stomach and used his leg to hook around Moran’s, pulling it out from underneath him, causing him to the fall to the floor. Sherlock pinned him down with an arm across his throat, his legs pinning down Moran’s legs while his other hand rifled through Moran’s pockets. As Sherlock cut off more air via Moran’s throat, his feeble attempts to push Sherlock off with his arms weakened further. Eventually Sherlock found what he was looking for, and pulled out the hand gun that was nestled in Moran’s inside jacket pocket.

He switched off the safety and held it to Moran’s head. “Which room is John in?” he asked, easing his hold on Moran’s neck.

Moran shook his head, so Sherlock pressed the gun a little bit more into Moran’s temple. “Tell me.”

Moran grunted, and lifted a hand to point the door two doors down on the left.

Sherlock sat back and stood up. “Up,” he commanded. When Moran obeyed, Sherlock used the muzzle of the gun to push Moran in front towards the room.

Moran entered first, then Sherlock, still pointing the gun at Moran. His heart clenched when he saw John still curled up in the corner.

“John. You need to wake up. Mycroft’s on his way. We’re going to get out of here,” Sherlock said loudly.

John stirred a little and opened his eyes. He winced as he moved, slowly stretching out his muscles as he prepared to stand up.

Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off Moran, aware that he had just brought him into a room where there was still a table full of torturing implements. But he wasn’t going to just leave him outside so he could go running to Moriarty who could wake up soon.

Sherlock risked a glance at John, who had managed to stand up. He caught his eye and raised an eyebrow questioningly. John nodded. He was obviously in agony, but he was okay.

A flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, brought his attention back to Moran.

Sherlock turned to see Moran pull another hand gun out of his back pocket. He used his other hand to knock the gun flying out of Sherlock’s hand, and pointed his own gun at Sherlock’s head.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Moran said.

The sound of a gun being shot filled Sherlock’s head.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock expected to feel pain, but nothing came. His first thought was that he was in shock, and therefore unable to feel the pain. But still nothing came. He didn’t even collapse.

But Moran did.

Sherlock stared as Moran went down, clutching his leg, his gun clattering to the floor. Sherlock’s mind was racing. _Two guns. There were two guns. Mine and Moran’s. Mine went behind me… Towards John. John._ Sherlock spun to see John standing behind and slightly to his right, still holding out the gun pointing it towards Moran. John, who had just been tortured and had barely been able to stand up, was standing straight backed holding the gun steadily as he walked slowly forward towards where Moran was clutching the bleeding bullet wound in his leg.

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” John said quietly, looking down at Moran, the gun pointing towards his head. Sherlock took a tiny step back. Loud angry John was okay. Quiet angry John was downright terrifying, even if none of it was directed at Sherlock at this point.

“So, you joined up with Moriarty. Were you one of his clients for his consulting criminal business? Please Jim, I really hate this ex-soldier. Please help me ruin his life? What the hell did I do, Seb? What did I do to deserve all this crap?” John demanded.

“You stole her,” Moran said through gritted teeth against the pain. “You stole Natalie.”

John stared at him in shock. “That is what this is all about? Some delusion you had that I stole your girlfriend?”

“You did have a reputation for it, _Three Continents Watson_ ,” Moran said.

“I never slept with other people’s girlfriends. Especially not my friend’s girlfriend. She was worried about you. _I_ was worried about you. You’d gone off on one of your secret sniper assignments or whatever the hell you did, and neither of us knew where you were. You’d already been gone for 2 nights. We kept each other company. Chatted, played cards, that kind of thing, to distract us from the very real fact that you could be dead, and we wouldn’t have had a fucking clue.” John pinched the bridge of his nose. “You made my life hell, Seb. All because your twisted brain came to the wrong conclusion.”

Sherlock watched silently. Well, this was an interesting development. It would explain Moran’s eagerness to be the sniper targeting John three years ago. Everyone who had known of it throughout the network, which wasn’t really very many, had noted his eagerness. They had all thought it was Moran’s way of sucking up to Moriarty.

“You deserved it,” Moran managed to say.

John’s eyes narrowed. “So I deserved to be shot, did I? Oh don’t give me that look. It wasn’t exactly discreet. I may have been in shock, but I know which direction that bullet came from, and it wasn’t the enemy trench.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up from where he was watching Moran to look at John. Moran had shot John? His eyes went back to glaring at Moran, his fists clenching at his sides. If John wasn’t going to shoot Moran, Sherlock would be perfectly happy to.

John seemed to be having an internal battle. Eventually he spoke again. “You were a good friend, Seb. Before that stuff with Natalie.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Moran asked, the pain in his leg feeling worse by the second.

“Oh, _I’m_ not going to do anything. I think I’ll let Mycroft deal with you. I’m sure he can think of plenty of ways to make you suffer,” John said, lowering the gun.

And with impeccable timing, the door burst open and a swarm of men entered, immediately focusing on Moran. Mycroft walked in after them, calmly swinging his umbrella, though Sherlock could see the effect his disappearance had had on his elder brother. There was a very slight irregularity to the rhythm of the swinging umbrella, and also a tightness around his mouth. Sherlock almost felt sorry for what Mycroft must have been going through. In fact, he probably would have felt sorry, if he wasn’t still so angry at Moran. Wait, no he wouldn’t have felt sorry. Of course not. _Dammit, three years on the run, and I’ve gone soft. That doesn’t make any sense. Surely it would have made me tougher?_ Sherlock shook his head. Later for thoughts like that.

Mycroft came to stand by Sherlock. “When you’re ready, a car is outside waiting to take the two of you to either the hospital or Baker Street. Whichever you think would be best for Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock glanced over to where John was now leaning against the table in the middle of the room. Whatever rush had caused him to be able to stand soldier straight before had obviously worn off.

“Moriarty is through the door at the end of this hall, and through the only other door past that one. He was tied up and unconscious when I left him. He’s probably awake now, though he does have a dislocated jaw,” Sherlock said, his eyes never leaving John, who was staring down at his feet.

Mycroft nodded. “We’ll deal with him,” he said. He noticed with a glance what Sherlock was fixated on, and smiled a very small smile. “Go to him, Sherlock. You two deserve some time together.”

Sherlock glanced at him and nodded, before making his way over to John.

John looked up as he neared and smiled slightly. “Is it over now?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded. “There’s a car outside to take us to either the hospital of Baker Street, I wasn’t sure if…”

John held up a hand to silence him. “I want to go home, Sherlock,” he said quietly.

Sherlock nodded and smiled. “Me too.”

John smile grew a little. “Let’s go then.”

As they neared the door, John spoke again.

“And don’t you think for one second you’ve completely gotten away with disappearing for three years. I may have to punch you for making me suffer through that. But I'm going to do it when you least expect it," he said with a wicked smile.

And all Sherlock could do, was smile back, filled with joy at being back on his way home with his very much alive and safe blogger and his only friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so this for feels like the end of the story. But in my head it still seems unfinished, but I have no idea why, because I don't actually have a plan for what to write for the next chapter. It's quite confusing actually. So I'm just going to say it's finished, until I maybe add a chapter. Maybe I'll write a sequel. Who knows?  
> If this is the end, I do hope you've enjoyed reading this story. Thank you so much for the kudos and the comments, they make my day every time.  
> Thanks for reading!


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